Ash Like Snow
by messengercat
Summary: Because in the end ash was nothing like snow; Lyle's path to Celestial Being.
1. Snow

_A/N._ A look into Lyle's head and his past, my way of figuring out how he got to where he was, not 100% true to canon but that's because canon kept changing and adding things while I was writing, so some parts have been edited to fit the new canon and some parts haven't. Ten interlinked oneshots that can be read as stand alones or in sequence. I have written all of them, someof them have been sitting on my hardrive for the best part of a year now, I'm probably just going to take my time uploading them.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Snow**

He'd always loved the snow; it always meant the holidays, hot chocolate if they'd been good and, if they were lucky, their father would light the fire and they could toast marshmallows in the living room if they promised to be very careful. Snow meant shrieks of glee at some ungodly hour of the morning when they woke up, looked out the window and saw the sea of pure white covering everything in sight, like the icing on one of their grandmother's cakes. Snow meant the single, all knowing look they would share.

"Race you," Neil would say.

"You're on," Lyle would reply.

And they would scramble round the room they shared, throwing on clothes; mismatched socks but who cared, digging out gloves and scarves which hadn't been used since last winter and were consequently stuffed down behind that old hand knitted sweater neither of them would wear, and where were those shoes anyway? The entire room would be full of loud laughter.

The door would creak open and their mother would look at them with that look they knew so well, the one which said 'you're being too noisy, it's too early, I haven't had enough sleep, but I'll forgive you anyway. I always do.' Then she would proceed to find those missing shoes, remind them to wear their coats and straighten their clothes and hair and fuss and laugh at their impatient expressions and tell them that they had half an hour before breakfast would be on the table since they had woken everyone up with all their crashing and banging around.

They would grin identical grins and agree in unison to be back inside on time before running past their mother, yelling a haphazard good morning to their father and Amy who would stare, bleary eyed at them as they raced past in a flurry of colour and noise. They were always bright, and always too loud. And they would run down the stairs, sounding like a herd of elephants as their father would always so affectionately put it, snatching up coats and tumbling out into the snow covered garden. Their own world of white to paint however they wanted.

And paint it they would throughout the day with three snow angels laid out in a circle and forts forsaken in favour of other games and the snowman with buttons for eyes and sticks for arms and their grandfather's hat he'd left behind last time he had visited perched on top. With so many images of grandeur running round their minds, that was how they would paint the garden this year, like every year, so many plans and too little time.

They would talk hurriedly, excitedly through shovelled mouthfuls of cereal in that fashion that they did when they both knew what they wanted, finishing each other's sentences, if they even bothered to finish them at all, all the while grinning those identical – scheming – grins. Their mother would frown at their bad manners and their father would hide his amusement behind the previous morning's paper he wasn't reading and they would be asked – told – to let Amy play as well.

So they would wait, impatiently hopping from foot to foot, anxious to get back outside to their world of white freedom, while their mother made sure their younger sister was dressed warmly enough and that they hadn't lost their gloves again like that one year it had taken them half an hour to find Lyle's missing gloves after breakfast, buried, soggy and useless under the falling snow at the back of the house.

Finally they were all deemed fit to face the cold winter weather, told once again to behave, and let loose on the garden, the twins half-carrying, half being dragged, by their equally enthusiastic sister, all three laughing. Their mother standing in the doorway laughing as well, following her children with a watchful eye as they brought colour to the barren, white landscape around them, before retreating back into the warmth of the house, chores to be done which wouldn't do themselves and a tin of hot chocolate to remove from its hiding place at the back of the cupboard.

Snowball fight games would stretch on and on, growing ever more complex and bizarre; rules made up, forgotten or changed as suited them, and, much to Lyle's eternal chagrin, it always wound up with him on his own against the combined efforts of Neil and Amy. These were the games that he always lost. He just couldn't win against both of them. All three finally collapsing in the snow, Lyle and Neil still half-heartedly trying to stuff snow down each other's backs, all red-cheeks and laughter, all three of them.

And Amy, bright eyes shining with just as much mischief as her two older brothers, would say that it was time to make a snowman. Just enough time indeed before lunch was called, sandwiches and juice, a couple of chocolates from the tin that sat on the kitchen sideboard stealthily hidden in coat pockets to eat when they were back outside. This snowman, she would continue, wisely, knowingly, would be bigger and better than the year before, as always. As always, the twins would rise to her challenge, finding new ways to outdo their previous efforts, which inevitably involved new ways to get in trouble later on; traipsing wet, snowy footprints across the kitchen floor and hallway carpet in search of things to use in their new snowman design.

They would chase Amy round and round the garden as they rolled the snow into large balls, together lifting and precariously balancing one on top of the other, Amy with full control over the artistic license, and no that doesn't go there, it goes over there! Until finally it was deemed satisfactory with a short nod of the head and a wide, beaming smile as Lyle would hand her their grandfather's hat and Neil would lift her up so she could put the finishing touch to their joint masterpiece.

It would always fall apart before it melted; knocked over when one of the twins would run into it during a game of chase or dismantled for more snowballs. But while it stood it was always their favourite piece of work.

And every year, without fail, Amy would insist on creating snow angels, lying on the cold ground, all laughing, her with joy and they with good humoured embarrassment. It was always hard to deny her anything, their little sister who drove them insane but they still loved to pieces. The other kids as school had learnt fast not pick on the young girl with the bright smile and carefree mischief in her eyes, because her brothers were faster and both punched hard. They got in too much trouble later for starting fights, trouble with both the teachers and their parents, but Amy's quiet thanks had made it worth it all the same. So they would lay in the snow, laughing at how silly they knew they looked, Amy laughing loudest of them all.

Eventually it would begin to get dark, and while the twins would insist that it was still light, look, the streetlamps hadn't even come on yet, there was still plenty of time to play, and they still hadn't declared a definitive winner in the last snowball fight, the one just between Lyle and Neil, they had to finish it before going back inside, after all the snow might not still be there in the morning and then they'd never know who would have won, and they weren't tired, really, please Ma, just five more minutes, please Da, we promise we won't hit the car again, please…?

And their mother would sigh and shake her head, smiling, and their father would laugh, and both would grudgingly agree to let the twins stay out just a little while longer, but Amy would be coming back inside now before she fell asleep standing up, tired out by the long day of adventure, keeping up so well with her two older brothers. She would try to complain as well, but willingly stepped back into the warmth of the house and her mother's waiting arms as the twins shared a single, all knowing look.

"Race you," Neil would say.

"You're on," Lyle would reply.

And then they would be gone, a flurry of laughter and snow and children's games as they raced around their world of white one last time. Dancing through the ruined forts, past the headless snowman whose hat was long since lost and forgotten, and over the snow angels that stood head to head to head in a circle on the ground, arms spread wide, hands just touching. And no winner was ever announced in their snowball fight game, when it was just one on one there never was, as the streetlamps would begin to flicker on, long shadows littering the white snow as they were called inside for the last time. Their mother standing in the open doorway, all smiles and love for her terrible, noisy, troublesome twins with their too-early mornings, inexhaustible energy and infectious laughter.

She would take their coats and scarves and gloves and hang them up to dry, shoes left in an untidy heap by the door that she would then straighten up after sending them both to get cleaned up – dinner was in ten minutes, it would be their own fault if it they had to eat it cold. She would spend the meal listening to their tales of the day's escapades, her twins interrupting each other and correcting the little, inconsequential details, Amy laughing, nodding, smiling tiredly but happily, and agreeing with them both.

Then, after the meal was done and the washing up and drying up and putting away of the dishes was done she would make hot chocolate and sit by the fire, Amy curled up, asleep already, by her side, watching the twins toast marshmallows under the attentive gaze of their father. And they would turn and smile and ask if she'd like some too because they're getting really quite good at this now; they've only set fire to three marshmallows between them this time. She would laugh and decline the offer, content with her coffee, and watching them see how far they could melt the sugary sweets before they fell off the fork and into the fire with a sparkle of colour and crackle and fade while they shrugged and tried again and again until their technique was just perfect.

And Lyle would always be the first one to fall asleep, his head resting on his brother's shoulder as they watched TV, and Neil would smile, not the mischievous smile that all three children shared, but one of a much quieter, more stubborn kindness. It was a rarer smile, one that said it wasn't only Amy he'd always looked out for and would defend without question, but Lyle as well, his younger twin brother. No matter what trouble it may land him in. And it was always with that smile – kind and determined – that Neil would fall asleep as well. Memories and laughter dancing through their dreams, wrapped in warmth and love, knowing that the next day might not hold snow, but that the snow would come again another day, bright and white. A world for them to paint and change forever and however they wanted; it would be theirs to own, if only for a day.

Lyle had always loved the snow; it was his to keep and change: a world to call his own.


	2. NoMan's Land

_A/N._ I've heard theories and 'offical reports' both ways as to who was inside or outside the building, but I've gone with this one as it was the current 'offical' version at the time I wrote it. And also, some other family because it always struck me as a little odd that it is never stated what happened as to where they stayed afterwards. It bugged me so I found a way to fix it that fit in my head. Traumatised Lyle and bad language ahead.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**No-Man's Land**

He'd never heard anything like it in his life and he hoped to the gods – any of them, he didn't care which one – that he never would again, transfixed by the falling ash and tumbling rubble that had been a shopping centre only moments before, the blast having knocked him off his feet. He had been inside that very same building, laughing and asking his parents if he could go and buy an ice-cream from the seller they'd seen outside since Amy had one and it looked really good. It wouldn't ruin his dinner, honest.

He'd run, still laughing, down the stairs and out the vast series of swinging doors into the bright sunshine, warmer than it would normally be at this time of year, and across the road to the park. The man in a clown suit selling balloons had caught his eye though and on a whim he wondered if Amy might like one, they were bright and cheerful like she was, and if needs be he could always use it to beat Neil round the head with and not get in trouble for it. It was sounding like a better and better plan the more he thought about it, though he'd have to buy the ice-cream as well. So he slowed his pace, digging in his pocket for the extra money he'd need.

That same loose change was still in his hand, falling through his fingers to the concrete, the quiet chiming audible to his ears even over the screaming, people running everywhere. Someone – he had no clue who, just another nameless figure – had grabbed Lyle's arm, yelling something that he missed completely, and began to try and forcibly drag him away from the sight –site – of the crumbling building, the explosion still echoing, the shockwaves making the ground shake beneath his feet. He didn't want to go.

Wrenching his arm away he stumbled forward, tripped and fell again, grit digging into his hands, scratching the skin away and his vision blurred. His throat felt raw and he wasn't sure he could get back up again. He hadn't even realised that he had been screaming, hadn't noticed the tears streaming down his own face, sitting in the middle of the road shaking like a leaf as he stared at the fire and smoke.

Somewhere out the corner of his eye he saw a smudge of colour, the bright, cheerful balloons floating away, their seller long since gone, fled for safety. He watched the balloons float over the burning ruins and chaos, nearly trampled underfoot by the people running away.

Only then did the gravity of the situation catch up with him as he scrambled to his feet, all ripped jeans and grazed knees, and ran as well as his legs would allow – they seemed to have forgotten how to work – towards the once-shopping centre, screaming again as he pushed past people, screaming names over and over again. His mind was a mess. Ma. Da. Amy. Neil. Gods, no, he thought – screamed – no, no, no… He screamed, not aware of how much his own body hurt, not caring either, as he was grabbed again by a second person, more insistent than the first and stronger as well. Yet he still struggled, still screamed, lashing out, fists striking everywhere he could reach. Later he was sure he'd given the guy a black eye, and probably a broken nose, but right then he didn't care, all he could think of was his family – _his_ family – trapped somewhere inside the rubble. Amy's bright, cheeky smile and his mother's kind one as she handed him the money for ice-cream, his father's voice, deep and rich, and Neil grinning.

Not grinning now, not smiling now, not kind now, just burning.

The acrid stench of the smoke hit him and made him stop, made him open eyes he hadn't remembered shutting, the burning rubber, wood and flesh. And he started screaming again, more panicked and wide eyed, unable to look away from the scene that was really before him. People – at least they might have been people once – with limbs askew, broken and twisted in directions which shouldn't be possible, flesh burnt away, blood and fire staining everything.

And the once-people were everywhere, some of them still alive, barely, crying, whimpering, praying, and everywhere Lyle looked were people who had been laughing, smiling – people he had _seen_ laughing and smiling – lay dead and dying and beyond recognition.

Everywhere he looked he saw his parents, his brother, his sister dead and dying and beyond his help beyond his reach beyond… And it was too much to take as his mind completely shut down and he stopped screaming.

The fourteen year old child blacked out, collapsing to the ground like a discarded rag doll.

* * *

When he awoke again he was faced with white walls, disinfectant and clipped voices, yet echoes and images burnt into his vision every time he closed his eyes, and close his eyes he did, not liking the sight of the hospital any better, fighting back tears even as the fires rages and the smoke filled his senses.

Lyle felt sick.

He leapt – fell – from the bed and ran – stumbled – to the bathroom, ducking round the doctor – nurse – who tried to stop him. He'd always been fast, but not as fast as Neil...

They were calling his name, but he ignored them, slumping to the cold floor, resting his head against the wall and stared at his hands – arms – bandaged, pale and shaking and wondered where his jacket had gone. Neil had one just like it. It had been their mother's idea. All he could do was stare as he slowly, mechanically, got to his feet – he had no shoes on, no socks either, he noticed – and walked back out into the hallway. Not feeling any better, but not feeling any worse. Not really feeling anything, it was better than the alternative.

"Lyle!"

He'd never heard so much emotion in just one word as he looked up from his sockless feet and into the eyes of his grandmother. Standing in the middle of the hall he suddenly felt very small as he opened his mouth to speak. 'Why are you here?' he wanted to ask, but instead what came out was a pitiful, "I… They…" and then he choked and broke again, swaying on his feet as the nurse rushed to his side – something about shock or trauma, he wasn't paying attention – and he bit back the tears again. He was crying too damn much; it was making his head hurt.

"Ais-" His voice sounded bad even to his own ears, and he tried again as he was led back to bed. He was supposed to be resting. "Grandma…?"

There was a desperate kind of hope in the one, single childish word, question and one he could see the answer to before she could voice it.

"I'm sorry, love, they've not been found yet." She sat down on the bed beside him; pulling him close just as she had when he and Neil had been young – younger – and would tell them stories. Only now there was only Lyle and there were no happy-ending bedtime stories to be had here. "But they're still lookin', Lyle, there's still hope."

Yet even Lyle knew, could hear, that she didn't believe her own words, empty promises, and he had never felt as small or as helpless as he did right then.

* * *

The ground felt strange, crackling and silent, as he walked across it. He didn't want to know what it was under his feet, so he made-believe that it was just what had used to be the grass, now just dirt and broken concrete. As soon as the doctors had given him the all clear he'd left, shaking his head when Aislin had said they should go home – the officials would call if they found anything. He'd come back to the shopping centre, or what used to be a shopping centre, it was completely unrecognisable now, and seeing it as it was now he couldn't imagine how it had ever been standing when it had fallen so easily. Like a child's house of plastic bricks or cards. He's never had the patience or care for the latter like Amy had, and the former were used to turn into battle forts with little paper balls flung across the room between him and Neil.

He'd seen the already growing rows of bodies, lined up and hidden under clinical plastic sheets, he'd seen them and kept walking, not looking left or right, but just straight forward. If he couldn't see them then they weren't there. He refused to think how many people he might have known or recognised, from church, from school, or just from walking down the street. He kept walking, ignoring the fire-fighter that tried to stop him – you can't go in there, kid – he'd looked back and said with a straight face, "My family is in there, I am helping."

Looking back he knew the man should have stopped him, should have done his job and kept people out, but he'd not kept Lyle out, not done his job. That either meant he'd been crap at his job, or Lyle had terrified him or confused him, or maybe he'd just looked so much like the living dead the man had thought him a ghost, he certainly hadn't sounded human, let alone just a child.

He'd climbed over the ropes and vanished, and kept walking, slipping and tripping on occasion. But he'd known the shopping centre well enough, automatically walking along the halls that didn't exist, and not looking at or listening to anything. He was just walking, and a brief thought flickered through his mind, a reminder that he'd run off and left Aislin and Ryan at the car. They'd be frantic by now, and why was no one stopping him? Why was no one dragging him out of the collapsed building? But as quickly as it had come the thought was gone again and his mind was empty and he was walking to who-knew-where.

Only somehow he must have known, falling to the ground and tugging at chunks of rock and metal. They should be here. The bench on the first floor hall, just down and across from the sports-wear shop was where he'd left them. Neil had just gone to get the leather bound notebook they'd agreed they would buy for their father's birthday, he would have easily been back in the time it took Lyle to get outside, the bag with the notebook in hidden away inside his jacket, the same way they always used to hide the sweets and biscuits they secreted from the kitchen. Amy had been in on the idea and when their father wasn't looking they were going to give it to their sister, so she could hide it in her bag, and then they'd wrap it and write a card later. Their sister was sneaky, but she'd learnt from the best.

He'd broken open the skin on his hands again, and he'd wiped more dirt across his face, and Aislin would kill him for ruining another pair of jeans, but his fingers closed around something and he froze, suddenly scared to death. There was blood, and it wasn't his. It set every sense on edge as he tore his hand away, stared for a moment then began digging again, babbling as he did so, ignoring how much his throat hurt, rough and sore from crying and from inhaling the dust as the words tumbled over each other like the rocks from his hands. Coughing and choking as he grabbed hold of his brother's wrist and cried out in relief when he felt a pulse.

His shouting had attracted attention, and he felt strong hand on his shoulders, pulling him back, and he tried to shake himself free, tried to hold onto his brother, but he couldn't and his grip slipped and someone was talking to him, but he didn't catch a word of what they were saying as older men in dirt caked uniforms set to work much faster than Lyle had been, shifting rocks and yelling orders. He caught the words medical, ambulance, and danger and then someone said dead and Lyle stopped struggling.

"Neil…" he whispered as someone covered his eyes with a thick, gloved hand. They couldn't be dead. He'd felt a pulse, that meant alive, living, well, hurt maybe, but alive damn it. Damn it all, his brother wasn't dead!

He ripped the man's hand away with a last show of strength and stumbled forwards, falling to his hands and knees and looked up, and relief washed through him to see his brother, covered in dirt and badly hurt but alive, and Lyle called out, happily, until his brother snapped, twisting sharply and hissing in pain and the words died on Lyle's lips.

"They're dead_._"

He'd never heard Neil sound so cold, so unforgiving, or so inhuman and his smile faltered.

"What do you mean...?"

"They're _dead_!" His brother voice sounded horrible; empty, cracked and jagged. "Amy, Ma, Da, they're all _dead_."

"You don't know that!" He couldn't– They couldn't– There was no way. Lyle tried to get to his feet, tried to get closer to his brother, convince him he was wrong.

There was a slightly flicker of fear, and then it was drowned in cold fury as Neil shouted at his brother, "You don't get it, Lyle, they're dead, gone, they're not coming back!"

"But–"

"_But nothing, _go the hell away!" The people in uniform were trying to calm Neil down, and another was once again trying to pull Lyle away. "Get lost, Lyle."

He and Neil had often argued, often over stupid, petty things, and Lyle had resented the attention Neil got as the eldest, resented being called by his brother's name because people couldn't tell them apart. But Neil had never told him leave, it had always been the other way round, so he stood there and stared, fresh tears in his eyes.

"Ya heartless bastard..."

Neil didn't even flinch, fixing his brother with a glare that was harsher and rawer than anything Lyle had seen before, "Feck off."

Lyle had turned and run as far and as fast as could, until his legs gave way and he fell to the ground again, fake snow and the dead everywhere, and he was crying again, trying to forget, trying not to remember, not to think, nothing as he saw the explosions, the death, the not-people, not-smiles, no more…

Tried to forget the look in his brother's eyes just moments ago and the hope in Lyle's heart died.

The bombing had broken Lyle, stolen his family and replaced them with figments of nightmares, but it had killed Neil, replaced his family with real nightmares, not just possibilities, and it was those cold-fire eyes that woke Lyle up again this time.

"Shit, Neil," Lyle muttered thickly to the dark, empty apartment as he dug the heels of his palms into his eyes – he wouldn't cry damn it, he was getting too old for that – cursed again and locked the past away where it belonged. Nights like this were the reason he didn't like dreaming, the nightmares and memories of his fourteen year old self resurfacing.

He didn't like knowing he was the only one left, he tried not to think about it as he listened to the sound of the Lancia pulling out of the driveway and waited in the dark for his alarm to go off, for the early morning news to tell him what the time was, and for the coffee that would get him through another day at work.


	3. SpeedDemon

_A/N._ There was a previous version of this chapter - which I was quite fond of - and then they threw Boarding School into the mix and I had to change, well, everything.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Speed-Demon**

Neil had bought the car second-hand from an old friend of a friend long since forgotten. It had been scratched and dented and probably belonged in the scrap heap as opposed to on the road, but he had bought it anyway. Probably also for a hell of a lot less than the machine was actually worth. Still, it looked as if it would serve its purpose and it wouldn't matter too much if it was run it into the ground – or off a cliff – it was scrap metal either way.

But the beaten up old Lancia still had some spark and some personality left. It was still a car meant for a rally course and not for the backstreets of a small Irish town. Somehow Lyle was sure that was the way his brother had always treated the car judging by the wear and tear on it every time he had to pick it up from some far-flung corner of the country.

There was always a collection of AA maps littering the passenger seat, a handful of biros and a spiral-bound notebook full of scribbled, shorthand directions, lists and memos, or numbers and dates and names in some code Lyle had never bothered to figure out. There was always a sleeping bag in the boot, tins of food, and a tool kit made up of mismatched equipment. There was also a first-aid kit, haphazardly stuffed full of an assortment of items, not all of which were available locally, and the contents seemed to be different too often, replaced from one visit to the next. A box of matches could always be found in the glove compartment alongside an empty wallet and a magazine for a Mauser handgun. He hadn't questioned the latter, and thankfully the police had never found it, or if they had they never questioned him about it.

In retrospect he was sure that was stupid, they must have seen it and should have at least confiscated it, but they hadn't taken it and Lyle hadn't been questioned on its presence in the car. It made him wonder, once, who had been bribed and how much for, but he'd thrown the thought away as quickly as it had come to him. In reality he didn't want to know, told himself he didn't care, officials were all corrupt anyhow. You couldn't live in this country and not know that much. So it went unchecked while someone, somewhere, cashed in a large cheque worth more than their monthly pay. That was what he told himself at least every time he checked through the contents of the car, some small voice in the back of his head ticking everything off against some well kept mental list, trying and failing to keep track of his insane elder brother. He didn't care; he just needed to know how much money he'd be spending on fixing the damn thing this time. Ignoring the voice in the back of his head that replied it would cost him nothing; the car was always in perfect working order.

Lyle had laughed when he first heard about the car his brother had bought and seen the photos their grandfather Ryan had taken and slipped in with grandmother Aislin's letter. The thing was a wreck, scratched and dented and barely looked like it would run let alone pass its MOT, it belonged on a scrap heap not in the driveway. But apparently it did run, Aislin had written, and ran well all things considered. At least it ran well enough for Neil to have driven it across town at three in the morning – Lyle had almost laughed at that as well until he checked the calendar and saw that his brother's test wasn't until the following week and realised he'd been driving it around in the middle of the night without a licence. The thought made something inside of Lyle twist and his grin slipped a little as he set to writing his reply.

He didn't mention much in regards to the car other than it should be written off, and completely ignored both points concerning Neil. Lyle didn't like pushing aside his grandmother's obvious concern as to why Neil had bought a rally car of all things and what he planned on doing with it but Lyle was getting good enough at convincing everyone that everything was just fine that he could almost believe it himself some days. He wrote about how his school work was going, mindless words that may or may not have really meant anything, but none the less it meant something to him to convince Aislin that he was doing well.

He posted it the next day and the photos were folded with letter he had received and tucked away in a drawer to be forgotten about as the days and weeks moved on and on, the day of his brother's test coming and going without a word. Lyle guessed it didn't matter, but he still checked the post box and his email everyday like clockwork, but there was nothing but junk and offers for things he really didn't need.

So he hadn't expected to open his inbox a month later to find a message from an unknown address with a file attached: a letter from Aislin and Ryan, a photo of the now renovated Lancia Stratos and his brother nowhere in sight. Lyle wasn't sure whether to laugh or not – that twisting feeling was back again – as he clicked on the picture, finally able to see it properly. Neil had done a good job, though Lyle wasn't too sure about the racing stripes. He could see why his brother had chosen it now, it really was a rally car at heart and now it looked the part as well, a certain decadent charm to the old machine which now housed a whole new engine, new upholstery and a sound system that annoyed the neighbours according to his grandparents letter. Lyle wondered what it would be like to drive it and checked his calendar again, mentally scheduling lessons already around his current school timetable.

Neil had passed his test first time round and with flying colours. Lyle rolled his eyes and kept reading, already determined to do the same if not better and quicker than Neil had done. His brother's absence was apparently because he had been the one taking the photo, showing Ryan how to use the new camera. Lyle kind of wished he'd seen it; their grandfather was terrible with new technology and it had made Aislin laugh.

Lyle had typed a quick reply and gone out to find the nearest driving school, checking his bank account on the way into the town centre and was slightly surprised to see he had more money than he thought. He shrugged it off, glad of the extra cash and figured it was due to the fact he never really kept an eye on how much money went in and out of his account in the first place. The bank statements that he would in later years go though carefully and curse loudly and inventively at remained unopened, gathering dust and hidden somewhere underneath the large pile of textbooks and magazines that littered his poorly organised excuse for a desk. Where Neil got his money from was anyone's guess, and Lyle honestly wasn't sure he wanted to know given the contents of the car.

By the end of the summer, six months after Neil had passed his test, Lyle sent a triumphant email which simply said 'Did it!' and attached a photo taken by a friend of him grinning widely, his shiny new licence in his hand. It felt like a victory, whether it was over Neil or himself he wasn't exactly sure, but he and his friends had celebrated it anyway with smuggled drinks and smokes and all wound up in detention for a week for their troubles.

After that his licence went unused, tucked away neatly in his wallet until collage was over and done with and university was looming and he was alone. Stepping out into the summer sun he hadn't expected to see the car, racing stripes and all, sitting in the driveway, keys in the ignition and a message on his phone from Aislin asking where the hell Neil had gone. Lyle had honestly replied he didn't know, still staring at the car as he hung up and walked across to the machine. It was the first time he'd seen it in person and he really wasn't sure what to make of it. In the end he just took the keys out, locking the car and taking the bus instead.

He did so every day for a week before finally giving in and taking the car down to visit his grandparents, trying to ignore and pretend Aislin's smile didn't slip when it was Lyle instead of Neil who climbed out of the car and offered a grin and an apology for not visiting more often. It was an awkward day in general, and Lyle was almost glad to be gone at the end of it. But only almost, he still missed the warm atmosphere of the house and home-cooking that accompanied it, it almost felt like home.

The car disappeared again the next week, vanishing over night along with the keys off of Lyle's chain, an envelope of money left on the kitchen counter under the coffee mug, Lyle's name scrawled hurriedly across the front in biro, leaving Lyle confused and angry. The envelope ended up in the bin, but the money still ended up in his bank account and Lyle wasn't sure he wanted to know how.

The pattern continued on and off for the next year, the car appearing and disappearing. So much so that he almost got used to it, even leaving the car keys separate from his apartment keys. But after that first appearance by the ex-rally car it was a long time after that before he could bring himself to drive the Lancia anymore than was absolutely necessary. Something about it just didn't feel right.

Then he had to start picking it up again and again from wherever Neil had abandoned it and bringing it back home to the empty apartment where it would remain in the driveway, Lyle sitting quietly in the driver's seat, the rear view mirror reflecting the eyes of a madman and not his own.

Lyle just lit another cigarette, closed his eyes against the images and wondered where his older brother was now.


	4. CrossRoad

_A/N._ I had fun with this one, I also had fun writing the opposite half which is part of a whole other monster.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Cross-Road**

Of all the things Lyle had expected upon walking into the café, seeing Neil across the room hadn't been one of them. It was almost like looking in a mirror and his head was shrieking at him to run, far and fast, but he was already walking over to the table, slipping his gloves off and stuffing them in his back pocket.

"Long time no see," he drawled, slipping into the seat opposite his renegade older brother.

"You too," Neil replied with an equally easy and equally fake smile, "Didn't expect to see you here."

Or is that 'didn't want to'? Lyle asked mentally, but out loud settled with shrugging, "They've got the best coffee here."

"True, got to say I've never found anywhere quite as good as this."

"Been looking?"

"Sometimes."

It was a non-committal, end of conversation, word, but Lyle continued on anyway, not knowing, and perhaps not even caring as he pushed the subject in what might have been a casual fashion were it not for the fact he wasn't laughing. Smiling, yes, but it didn't reach his eyes so he wasn't laughing.

"What have you been up to then?"

"A little of this, a little of that, you know how it goes." Neil shrugged. "And you?"

"A normal job, normal university life, there's never anything particularly interesting happening here."

The whole conversation was turning into a game really and something told Lyle he should have been sad, but all he could manage was disappointed as he ordered a coffee and watched his older brother out the corner of his eye. This person who looked like him and sounded like him wasn't Lyle's slightly insane, ever grinning twin, but someone else, someone who had forgotten what it was like to build snowmen and participate in lawless snowball fights. He wondered idly, as he twisted the mug round between his hands, what had happened to that child and who it was that had replaced him. He figured he'd probably never know, yet he almost hoped that the child was still there somewhere.

The silence should have been a comfortable one, they were twins, supposedly on the same wave length or whatever, but Lyle felt none of that, only the space of the years apart, like the table between them, something solid and cold.

"You alright?"

The question made Lyle jump, pretty much the last thing he had expected his distant brother to say. He shook his head, smiled – "I'm fine" – and lied through his teeth, almost hating himself for doing so. He would have, once perhaps, given in, but that was a younger, less jaded Lyle, not the one he was now who lied more than he told the truth and ran when he should have stayed.

Neil gave him a look that said he clearly didn't believed his younger brother, but let it rest anyway, going back to clicking the lighter in his hand.

Lighter?

Lyle blinked and stared at the silver object for the first time, noting the packet of cigarettes beside Neil's empty mug. Putting his own coffee back on the table as Aislin ranted in his head and he asked incredulously, "When did you ever take up smoking?"

This he couldn't believe. He really, really couldn't. It made no sense.

Yet Neil just gave a wry smile and suddenly it didn't seem so strange after all because he was forgetting this wasn't Neil. "A couple of years back, everyone has their bad habits." That was probably the most honest thing Lyle had heard since walking into the café. Looking down at the lighter in his hand and clicking it shut Neil put it down. "I've been trying to kick it though."

"Good," Lyle said before he could stop himself. "Smoking kills."

"I know."

The lighter however did not reassure him of his brother's intentions. It was too well kept and too personal, even from where he sat he could see the initials engraved on the side, Neil's initials. He wanted to throw the thing through the window and wring his brother's neck and the anger took him by surprise so he kept quiet. He kept quiet and stared and tried to stuff the unwanted emotions in a box which he could hide in some corner of his mind where it could gather dust and be forgotten about again.

He tried to think of better things, of better times. He remembered smiling when he'd opened a gift a couple of years previous, the note reading 'well done on passing your test, little brother'. He remembered laughing as he pulled on the soft leather gloves. He tried to think of other things and other times, but all he could find was the lighter on the table and the gloves in his pocket.

Thinking didn't work, and the silence stretched on.

Part of him wanted to reach across the table and the years and drag his absent brother back, but he didn't, and Lyle stayed, nursing his cold coffee and dark thoughts long after Neil had left, the bell above the door chiming an almost unheard toll.

* * *

They were ten again. Walking back from the corner shop, the milk their mother had asked them to go and get for her in the bag in Neil's hand along with the lollypops she had not asked for and the change which was less than she was expecting jangling in his pocket. The day was bright, loud and cloudless, busy people with busy lives. Spring half-term was always good, only a few more weeks until the long summer holidays would begin. A summer which would probably be spent, in part, visiting with relatives and wrecking havoc at the beach, it usually was.

Summer was close, but not quite upon them yet, and there were still chores to be done or avoided with ingenious plans such as taking the long way back from the shop, cutting through the park and perhaps getting distracted along the way racing to see who could get up to the top of the hill and back again the fastest. It was always close enough – yet Neil always finished first – a draw. Then, with a guilty glance at Lyle's watch, they would grab the shopping and run towards the exit on the other side of the park. Laughing, always laughing. That was the one thing he remembered the most: the constant – real – laughter.

The roads were busy, not rush hour busy, but just holidays busy, family trips and the like. They had always crossed at the lights, like they'd been taught – the main road was busy after all and it was stupid to try crossing it any other way. The neighbour's eldest had been in an accident only last month, nothing worse than a couple of sizable bruises and a lecture they'd been able hear from their own back garden and a lecture for them as well that evening reminding them of the dangers and reminding them to always cross at the lights.

Lyle shook his head, puzzled, so why had they stopped here, half way down the road?

"Neil?"

Neil grinned, handing over the shopping bag and the change for their mother, "It's fine, don't worry."

"What are you doing?"

And it wasn't money but house keys he held.

"Sorry, there's something I have to do."

And he wasn't ten anymore nor was he puzzled, more just confused and irritated as he reached to grab his brother's arm, "What the hell?"

Neil shrugged and took a deliberate, casual step back – "You'll be okay" – back into the road, still grinning, hands in his pockets. "Take care, alright?"

Then he was gone. A bright blur of colour lost in the noise of traffic, screeching brakes and car horns and Lyle's own voice, yelling at him to come back.

And a door clicked quietly shut.

Lyle's eyes snapped open and even before he had thrown himself from the bed and wrenched the window open to scream bloody murder at his brother the Lancia was half way down the road, going well beyond the speed limit and well beyond his reach, but Lyle yelled anyway, every damn insult and curse he could think of and screw them if the neighbours complained.

He'd heard his brother leave, and knew he wasn't coming back – the silver lighter sitting on the table in place of his leather gloves was proof enough of that.


	5. Better

_A/N._ ...Thus was the Lyle-cat joke born, but that's what I get for writing this at stupid-am in the first place.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Better**

Only twice in his life did Lyle really hate his brother, and one of those was the day he didn't turn up for Aislin's funeral. Ryan had died a year earlier, passing quietly in his sleep, and now Aislin had followed him. She had been found in the living room, seemingly sleeping her usual chair by the window looking out over the garden. He'd cursed his brother to hell that day after everyone else had left and he was alone, cursing and threatening and for once actually meaning every word of it, waiting just to see if Neil would show. He didn't, and Lyle hated him for it. Mostly it was just for someone to hate, someone at which to direct his anger and frustration with the world in general, a focal point.

He had sat there in the cold, watching it get dark. He hated graveyards. He hated funerals. He may have been physically present for Amy and their parent's funeral, but he hadn't been there in mind, just letting everything slip past him with a nod of acceptance at the words of condolence. He'd let Neil and his grandparents deal with them, shifting himself into the shadows and more than willing to stay there – out of sight, out of mind, anywhere but here among the grey stone, black clothes and flowers. It was horribly claustrophobic. He didn't know how anyone could stand it.

As a kid he had liked to fight, mouthing off at people who annoyed him. He hadn't been a bully, but he had been a pain in the arse for all of their teachers. He'd liked the attention and the reputation, even if it did nothing to stop the confusion between which one of them was Lyle and which was Neil. He'd once sucker punched a particularly irritating kid who had called him Neil. He'd had a bad day and the kid had just hit the wrong button at the wrong time. The trouble that had got him into was spectacular and hadn't made him feel much better, but it had seemed the best thing to do at the time.

After the bombing however he hadn't fought, he hadn't even _walked_ away, he had run as far and as fast as he could. Boarding school had sounded like the perfect plan, an escape from all of those fake words, sad faces and people asking him if he was okay. He'd waved off friend's concern when they saw him walking to the supermarket to pick up the groceries. He'd point blank ignored Neil knocking on his door at night, pretending to be asleep until his twin took the hint and left. He'd even refused the sympathies of his grandparents. Instead he had turned round to them all, waved the school prospectus in their faces and cheerfully said he was going. He was going, going, gone, before they even had a chance to object.

He stared up at the stone church and lit another cigarette, muttering another curse. There was no one around to hear him, so why should it matter? If there was anyone up there then he wouldn't be standing here now with a cancer stick between his fingers and no damn family left. He'd bitten back the accusation of life being 'unfair' a few times over the years, he knew it wasn't fair, he was walking proof of that fact, but it didn't mean that he didn't want to shout and scream the fact sometimes until someone actually listened and… Until someone could, just maybe, make it a little better. He felt like the cat left in a box by the side of the road, abandoned and forgotten.

Only he wasn't forgotten, the regular appearance of money in his account from an 'unnamed' benefactor made sure of that, but he still felt it because no one was there, no one was left. In the crowd of familiar faces and words no one had sounded real, and now no one was left. There was only him standing there with the night crawling in and a long walk back to an empty apartment waiting for him.

Death was cold, more so for those left alive and alone.

So he hated Neil that day, hated him for leaving him so damn alone in the cold grey graveyard, and hated death even more as he dropped the cigarette butt and ground it under the heel of his smart shoes, turning away and leaving the stone building behind.

He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers and wished he'd thought to bring a coat as he walked the streets he knew off by heart. He could have closed his eyes and still managed to take every correct crossing and turning, his feet knew the way better than he did, remembering the numerous times he had walked the same path even when his mind would forget, purposefully or otherwise.

He didn't bother turning any lights on, didn't bother doing much more than kicking off his shoes and collapsing on his bed. It was still early, and he thought about going out again, calling up a couple of old friends who might still have been in the area and hitting the town as they had done most Friday nights throughout their first year of university. The idea was soon discarded though, it had been a long day and he wouldn't be good company. So instead he closed his eyes and waited for sleep to find him.

Between sleep and death there were dreams, and Lyle sometimes wondered where his had gone when he woke up to the blinding morning sun pouring through the window where he had forgotten to shut the curtains and the newspaper delivery boy making a racket outside in the street.

Staring blindly at clock on his table he half thought about phoning in sick to work, but he didn't know what he would do with the day off so he crawled out of bed and tried to make himself look halfway presentable. The car keys weren't where he had left them, tossed into the little metal bowl beside the phone, instead they were hung neatly by the door. Lyle shook his head, muttered a few choice words and grabbed them anyway. If nothing else he'd go out after work, he'd get away from town for the weekend to clear his head or something like that.

He looked at the answer phone for a moment, the little blinking light telling him how many messages he still had to listen to, how many condolences he still had to hear, and hit the delete button. He was used to being alone now as the door clicked shut behind him, locked up the same as always with a painted smile, because he was better than this. Because he had to be better and had to go on, because he refused to see the ghosts and refused to die.

He had to be better, he believed, as he stopped the car and walked through the graveyard, because if he wasn't then he was nothing. The fresh flowers lay next to his own from the previous day, white, always white, and he swore his brother's name again: coward.

Lyle had to be better, because otherwise he too would be dead, just like the rest of his family.


	6. Whirlwind

_A/N._ -

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Whirlwind**

The glass clinked as he set it on the table and tried to focus on the paper in his hand. Lyle didn't like having to bring his work home with him, but this needed doing and could well earn him a promotion if he got it done right and he certainly wouldn't say no to the extra money, it meant extra cash he could put away in a savings account somewhere to pay off his student loan. He knew a lot of people who complained about the same thing – university tuition fees had gone through the roof again and part of him knew the answer but had to wonder why they did it all the same – but he was pretty certain none would be paying them off the same way he was. He wasn't paying back the government; he was paying back his brother.

He threw the paper down and picked up his glass again, _his_ debts to the government had never existed, all his fees had been paid by a so-called anonymous patron, yet it didn't take a genius to figure out who it was. The same person who kept secreting money into Lyle's account from gods only knew where which only came to light when the statements arrived each month. How the hell Neil did it was beyond Lyle's comprehension, but he wasn't sure he wanted to know, there were a lot of things about his brother's life he was fairly sure he never wanted to know. Neil was an idiot and that was that. Lyle had accepted the help at the time, unable to do anything to stop the transfers going through, but he was fixing all that now. Or trying to at least, there were still times when the bills would be paid before they arrived or the Lancia would come back with the insurance fully renewed and the entire car checked and any repairs done and finished to perfection.

So Lyle was paying it back, all of it, and then he would never have to deal with any of this again; he could lead a good enough life that his older brother would never have need to send him money ever again. He didn't like to feel that he owed his brother anything, and that was why he was sat here at ten to midnight still working on this damn folder full of paper which was making less and less sense as the hours dragged on.

"Oh, for the–"

Lyle shoved the chair back from the desk, glared at the offending paper work, and walked back to the kitchen, or more specifically the fridge and the alcohol it contained. It was going to be a long night.

Granted the alcohol probably wouldn't actually help in getting the job done efficiently but it gave him something else to concentrate on. It was an interesting balance, trying to find enough drink to keep his mind off of unwanted subjects but not enough to cause his work to become completely incomprehensible. Normally he might have gone out, had fun with people who made for good company, but he'd turned down the offers tonight in favour of work. He wasn't sure that he hadn't been a fool to turn them down now because he was getting nowhere fast.

One quick sweep of the rather messy kitchen later – he'd get around to cleaning it one of these days – he had refilled his glass, put together a sandwich and dug out the cigarettes and lighter from his coat pocket. Not the healthiest selection of things but it worked and he was back to work with a fresh bout of determination to get everything done and dusted and polished and on the boss' desk at nine o'clock sharp the next morning.

Never mind the fact that he consequently spent his lunch break half-asleep in the café down the road trying to get enough caffeine into his system to get him through the rest of the day. The sight of the Lancia parked outside and the idea he'd be able to pay the bills on it himself was more rewarding than it should have been.

He celebrated when the promotion did come, then cursed all the extra paperwork it entailed.

His desk was never neat, and no one could ever find what they were looking for in it, yet Lyle could with his eyes closed and whilst on the phone at the same time, shifting a folder here, a disk there, here you go, this is the one you want, now get out, I have work to do. His manner was brisk and easy, a whirlwind just passing through, yet nothing he worked on broke or failed, it just left the papers fluttering to the floor where he had once stood as he waved and walked out the door, job done. He did well, exceeded expectations in any and every which-way direction he turned, but he was never still, he was always running from or to no one knew where and no one knew what. No one knew anything much at all when it all came down to it and no one knew why.

"Lyle?" Someone had once said as they walked across the car park, and of the two of them it was Lyle who looked like he didn't belong there – long coat hiding his suit, hair mussed up by the wind and a cigarette already in his hand. He looked like he was just passing through.

"Yeah, what is it?" Lyle had replied, he didn't even sound the part of the good employee he was known to be.

"Why did you come here?"

It was a strange question, one that no one had asked but many had wondered at one time or another, a passing whirlwind of a thought.

Lyle had paused, fixed his colleague with trademark grin and simply replied, "It pays the debts." Not bills, but debts, and it was a strange way to phrase it, purposeful almost, but Lyle had shrugged and changed the subject, as he pulled out the car keys, "You up for going out tonight?"

"Sure…."

And the passing conversation was forgotten in the mists of drink and laughter and work, just the way Lyle liked it. He lived well enough, and that was what mattered, not whether he could remember anyone's name or office number.

He didn't bother clearing out his desk, or even handing in his note of resignation – he never even bothered writing one – he just didn't turn up for work one day and no one knew why, yet no one made much effort to find out and the whirlwind was forgotten.

The whole thing made Lyle laugh as he turned onto the main road, radio blaring music from some old rock and roll station, heading away from his job and towards his work.


	7. I Hate It

_A/N._ Again I think this was one of the earlier parts I wrote and then edited to death, but I think I like how it turned out in the end.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**I Hate It**

"_I hate it..."_

The folder had fallen from the table with an almighty crash, spilling its contents across the floor, jerking Lyle back to full consciousness. He really needed to go to bed before three in the morning, he decided, since now he was hearing voices on top of everything else. Cursing under his breath he got down on the floor and started picking up the now scattered papers. They were gonna be a bitch to put back in order now.

"Hey."

Lyle had looked up, searching his mind for the name of the colleague who was giving him a very concerned look of his own. Kevin, he recalled, at least it might have been, a relative newbie who liked to help, even when help was neither wanted nor needed. "Yes?"

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Lyle had replied a little more sharply than perhaps he should have, irritated for no real reason. Damn it, did he ever need more sleep.

"Are you sure?" Kevin had persisted if a little hesitantly, "Only, you're crying..."

At that Lyle really had sworn, violently enough to make the newbie take a couple of steps back and, if possible, look even more concerned than before and just slightly terrified as the twenty-five year old Irishman took the papers he'd been gathering and slammed them on the desk before scrubbing at his eyes and swearing again when he realised that the child wasn't actually lying.

"Lyle..."

Lyle had ignored him, half-confused and half-frustrated about the fact he had no idea what was going on. It had been years since he'd last cried, and now he was for no reason at all – _"I hate it..." _– the words echoed in his head – his voice, but at the same time not – and he could still hear the crash that the folder had made when it hit the floor and maybe, just maybe he was going insane, staring at the papers, full of words, instructions, directions, details, important business... And found he could comprehend none of it and cared even less. They all looked the same as the crisp, dead words of the letter the council had sent, telling him that they were knocking down his old home. He had no choice in the matter, and he'd tried not to think about it, he didn't live there, no one did anymore. He never thought they'd go through with it, he'd always expected them to be paid off, but they hadn't been.

"Lyle...?"

Lyle had grabbed his coat from the back of his chair, pulling it on even as he searched the pockets for the car keys, cigarettes and lighter, checking they were there and he hadn't left them somewhere else, shoving all of his work for the day into the 'out' box whether it was finished or not, muttering another curse when he received a paper cut for his troubles.

"Lyle!"

"See you tomorrow." Lyle had replied shortly and with a slightly twisted grin, shoving his hands in his pockets before he turned and walked straight out of the office, down the hall, down the stairs and out the front door.

He hadn't looked back, hadn't wanted to be given a reason to stop. Most would just think he was going on break. Others would know he'd been for his break only an hour earlier and wonder why the hell he was leaving the building again, and why the hell he wasn't back for the rest of the day. He'd hoped that Kevin, if that was his name, wouldn't tell anyone what had happened, wouldn't report his apparent mental breakdown, and that people wouldn't spend the next week asking awkward questions. Yeah right, like that was going to happen, he was going to be in trouble come morning.

Walking out had been a stupid plan.

Pity it had been the only thought in his head asides from a voice that wasn't his scaring the hell out of him and a letter he hadn't seen in many months.

Lyle had slumped back in the driver's seat of the Lancia, running a hand through his hair and grinning at the wrecked looking reflection staring back at him from the rear view mirror. It had been no wonder the boy had been concerned if this was how he'd looked; white as a sheet, wide eyed and visibly shaking. He looked ill, and right now, he felt it too.

"Damn you," he told his reflection, fumbling for the cigarettes and lighter, needing to find something to fill the empty silence.

The fact it was _empty_ silence was what had got him. He was used to silence, living on his own for the past seven years, but it had never been empty. Not inside his own head at least. There had always been a sort of faint buzzing of memories, warmth that couldn't really be explained. But it was how he'd always known when he would be getting a call from the local police to pick up the Lancia again, who it was who sent those stupid envelopes of money, and who the footsteps in the snow that ran beside his own belonged to.

And now – he had clicked the lighter once, twice, three times before it caught – it was empty silence and he didn't like it at all. It was too quiet, too cold, and too damn lonely already.

"Nothing, feckin' _nothing _left." He muttered, running his fingers over and over the initials engraved on the lighter – _"I hate it..."_ – and wondered what the hell had happened. And the part of his mind that still spoke with their grandmother's gentle, firm tone told him to mind his language, he was swearing too much. The other part of his mind didn't really care that much, it was already mapping out the fastest route to the only destination he could think to go to as he turned the keys in the ignition and reversed out of the office car park a little too fast and a little too sharply.

It had only been two or so in the afternoon, and the streets were quieter than they would be in an hour's time when all the schools let out for the day, and he had thrown logic out of the rolled down window as he'd gripped the steering wheel too tight and put his foot to the floor, speeding straight through the red light at the end of the road. Normally he would have been worried about being pulled over, breaking something or crashing, or a mixture of all three, but instead he had just not cared. Neil wasn't there to treat the old car like these roads were a rally track so Lyle was the one driving like a madman, a man on a mission, and he avoided looking in the rear view mirror, knowing what he would see there, a little older yet unchanged from that day ten years ago.

"You bastard," Lyle had whispered, flicking the cigarette butt out the window and clenching his teeth, more angry with the whole damn world than he had been in a long time, maybe than he had ever been as he flung the car round another corner. He hadn't known how and he hadn't known why, all he had known was for a fact that he was alone, and for that blinding moment he had truly hated his brother for doing this too him, for leaving him alone just as he had done at Aislin's funeral.

He had felt like a child again as he pulled over, killing the engine and checking his reflection to see if he looked as bad as he felt. He was still too pale, a vaguely manic look in his eyes, but a trademark and very fake smile covered it up well as he opened the glove compartment and removed the money that was now kept there. It may not have been an emergency in the normal sense of the term, but as far as he had been concerned it qualified. He stepped out of the car, shutting and locking it and not knowing why he ran his hand over the roof of the battered old rally car as he walked back towards the pub he had pulled up at.

He hadn't really cared it was too early to be drinking by any normal person's standard as he waved to the man behind the bar and took a seat.

"What brings you all the way out here, Lyle?" the guy had asked, picking up a glass and raising an eyebrow at the young man in question.

"Felt like a change," Lyle had replied with a shrug, before adding, "The usual, would ya?"

As the day had worn on he hadn't been sure how he had first started talking to the guy who had walked in not long after he had. The guy was German judging by his name, or at least the name he'd given Lyle, despite the flat, bland AEU accent, and there was something just a little bit off in the way he carried himself. Lyle had shrugged it off and ordered another round, waving off the slightly disapproving look in the bartender's eyes. Today he just didn't care, flicking his – not his – lighter and smoking more than he knew he should, but today he just really didn't care. Today he had just wanted something to fill that damned empty silence, and right then drinking himself stupid seemed to be working pretty well. He could go back to work and back to being sensible tomorrow.

In the corner a television set broadcasted the news as evening fell, reporting in the same old tones the same old news; yet another war, another battle, this one in space. There were only words spoken by the woman in a suit sat behind the polished desk, no pictures or videos today. It was just another footnote in history.

Lyle had frowned though as to his alcohol fuzzed brain the words on the screen began making more sense than they should have – _"I hate it..." CRASH-BANG_ – and he had lifted his glass, half full – half empty, what difference did it make? – raised it to the screen with it's bland reporters and repeated news and echoes of history and where was all of this going anyway?

The man beside him had given him a look over the rim of his own glass, not concerned or worried or confused, more contemplative as Lyle had spoken quietly, steadily, and with more conviction than Klaus had heard from his new drinking companion all evening, softly angry and laced with steely determination.

"Sorry Neil, but I guess..." Lyle had stared at the television, seeing something, hearing something maybe no one else could – _Bang – _and seeing that notice and knowing they, those government bastards, were the ones who were fighting and ripping down homes, his home – "_I hate it _too."


	8. Gene One

_A/N._ There's a lot of messed up stuff revolving around names and identities, it's fun.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Gene One**

It wasn't the first time he had held a gun, and he was pretty certain it wouldn't be the last, not now anyway. The metal was cold, heavy, and he wished not for the first time that he'd brought his leather gloves with him after all. He smirked; not-his gloves, just like that was not-his lighter he'd left on the table back at the makeshift-base next to the battered old wallet that held not-his money. It was strange, cold and empty out here in the desert. And Lyle liked it, it helped. He could focus and forget in equal measure, running through almost mindless training exercises.

He shifted the rifle, searching for his current target through the scope, wherever Klaus had hidden it this time. He had been off form all night, he'd be damned if he was missing this shot. It was irritating in a way that made little sense to him and he was the one feeling that way. Maybe it was the beer he'd split with Klaus after dinner, or maybe it was the bright, cloudless skies and more than slightly chilly air, but something was throwing his game tonight.

"A game, huh?" he muttered to himself. The word sounded off as well, dark, and he pulled the trigger. The silencer he'd fitted doing its job and the wooden silhouette went down. This time he had hit the mark, he just didn't want to know how well as he got up, slinging the rifle over his shoulder and trudged back towards the base. He'd play clean up in the morning. He needed sleep. That was why his game was off: he was sleep deprived. It was just the cold that was making him shake like that. Nothing else.

The night was quiet and so was the base, surrounded on all sides by sand, sand, and more sand. Nothing like the small beach back home, this here was desert-land, dry with no ocean in sight. Maybe that was the part he'd found hardest to get used to – not being able to see the sea, or at least hear the seagulls, noisy birds that they were. Lots of sand and yet no water and no birds, it was bizarre. But still, he liked it. It wasn't home. It was different and therefore held none of the attachments and responsibilities he'd normally associated with home.

It was different, and so was he.

He almost didn't notice his friend sitting outside the entrance to the base, not until he spoke, for which Lyle kicked himself. He _really_ was not on form tonight.

"You're late."

"Really? I didn't know we had a curfew."

"We don't, but…" he gestured towards his watch, "it's gone two in the morning. I was beginning to think you'd got lost."

"Is that even possible out here?"

"It's easier than you think."

Lyle smirked, "Don't you just listen for the sound of Shirin bitching you out and follow that?"

"That only happened once–"

"So far, and you must admit it was an impressive display."

Klaus gave his friend a sideways look, having come to expect such quips and comments he didn't rise to the bait. Instead he reached into an inside pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a small box of matches.

"Didn't know you smoked," Lyle said, leaning the rifle against the rocks and dropping to the desert floor.

"Only on occasion," Klaus replied, his smile momentarily lit up by the fire. "Shirin would probably kill me otherwise."

"Know what?" Lyle asked in a too-casual, too-conversational tone.

"What?"

He swiped the lit cigarette from his friend's hand in much the same way he used to steal the chips from his brother's plate at dinner. "You're a really bad liar."

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, for starters, Shirin would kill you full stop – we all know she has you wrapped around her little finger and won't stand for any nonsense and don't you even try and deny it. Secondly you don't show any of the signs of being even an occasional smoker – it really is bad for your health you know. And thirdly," he grinned and nodded towards the packet, "those are mine; you can't get them out here."

Klaus laughed and tossed Lyle the rest of the packet back, "And you're getting better at this by day."

"You learn to always keep your eyes open and stay one step ahead with a brother like mine." He never called Neil by his name, only ever referring to him as his brother, purposefully or otherwise, around the Kathron operatives and even Lyle wasn't sure why anymore. "And that, my friend, is why I'm the best."

It may have been an exaggeration but it wasn't a lie, whatever fire it was that had set Lyle careening down the path he was now on was something Klaus could only guess at. Lyle had taken anything and everything he, Shirin and the others had been able to throw at him – firearms, tactics, mobile suit combat – Lyle had fixed each with a determined glare, cracked his knuckles and got on with it, not stopping until he was satisfied that he had it down.

It was positively terrifying to watch the change which overcame the cheerful, laidback young man when presented with weapons and matters of warfare. That person was not the Lyle that Klaus thought he knew and it wasn't the Lyle sitting, smirking in that irritating know-it-all fashion right beside him now. There was an unmistakable difference between Lyle Dylandy who smoked too much, drank too much and laughed too loud and the Kathron operative Gene One who had become a killer, a spy and who had no regrets. Gene One was the best at what he did and that was what had earned him the code name he had chosen.

"Everyone knows that, Lyle, because you won't let them forget it."

"Of course not–" Even in the dark Klaus could see his friend's eyes grow a little sharper and a little colder. "–This world needs to change. It's corrupt, always has been, so we have to be the best we can with what we have to bring about that change." He smirked, laughed at a joke even he wasn't sure was there. "And everyone wants to be better than the person ahead of them. The harder I work, the harder everyone else has to work to keep up."

The worst part was that even though it made some sense to Klaus it perfect sense to Lyle, speaking from experience. After all, he was still chasing after the one ahead of him, the one he'd never be able to catch. Yet Kathron was helping and Lyle was learning, not only _how_ to fight but _why_ as he listened to the stories of the other members. Ikeda who had quit his job after his partner had been killed for digging too deep into things which should have been left alone, and he had brought with him the tales which had been left on the cutting room floor, the darker side of the news. Shirin's stories and political insight not only into her homeland in the Middle-East but the rest of the world as well, knowledge and skills she could easily have been killed for possessing. Men and women who had deserted the army, who had seen too much but were so horrified by the places they had left that they would fight to bring it down however they could, bringing knowledge and skills and machines. They wanted to take out this supposedly wonderful force that was ruling the world by smothering it and mercilessly massacring any who stood against them.

By that logic surely Kathron was a bad idea from the start, Lyle thought, staring out across the cold desert, they would all die for their cause just as nameless as everyone else the Federation ruined and swept under the rug, as if they had never been there to begin with.

But Klaus was smart, Shirin was deadly, and Ikeda and Eddie still had trustworthy contacts, so many people with so much to offer. Kathron was not nameless; it was whispered in the corners of the pubs back home by people who remembered the war, remembered that it was Celestial Being who had stopped it when no one else could. Whispered by those who could see what the Federation was doing even if there was nothing they could do about it. Lyle had heard the name Kathron spoken in hushed, excited tones as he drunk his beer and checked his phone for messages. They were known and could not be silenced as easily as the others had been. Kathron had operatives everywhere, eyes and ears everywhere; they were growing stronger and were not going down without a fight.

"Well," Klaus said, breaking the silence and breaking Lyle's train of thought. "Changing the world and chasing shadows can wait until the morning, because I don't know about you but I'm tired."

Lyle – and it was Lyle now – laughed and accepted the hand Klaus offered, pulling himself to his feet, and only just remembering to grab the rifle before heading back inside. "That's true. So, what's on the schedule for tomorrow then, oh great leader?"

Klaus smacked his friend's arm, "Don't call me that, and I don't know, Eddie was pouring over more maps earlier, so I guess we'll find out over breakfast."

"We do still have coffee left, right?"

"We'd better do, I'm going need it after having to wait up to find out if you'd gone and got yourself lost."

The laughed faded away as they disappeared deeper into the base.

They all wanted a revolution, and would do so by war, death and destruction if needs be. They would fight for peace and it was a fight Gene One wanted to win but Lyle Dylandy needed to win.


	9. Lockon Stratos

_A/N._ Written before SEIII, hence the differences. Only one more, short, chapter left after this.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Lockon Stratos**

He'd seen the boy before, one evening down the pub; even then he had stuck out like a sore thumb. The boy didn't look like he belonged there, didn't look like he belonged anywhere. To Lyle he had looked lost, but something about the way the child stared at him stopped him from asking anything.

Even back then he had guessed this child must have known his brother; he'd had that same vaguely haunted look hanging in the back of his eyes – the look of someone who had seen a ghost but was good at hiding it. He'd known for a long time that his brother was no longer of this world, but he refused to think on it, or the strangers who now visit the family grave. The strange man with purple hair whose solemn expression told Lyle the same story he'd seen in this child's eyes, and neither spoke with words, all he'd done was watch them, and that was all it took to know. Yet he got by well enough on his own, even if only one bouquet of white roses on the family grave looked horribly lonely. Lyle had known for a very long time that his brother was dead, but the child didn't know that he knew, so he acted surprised. He acted appropriately for someone of his age and sensibility that had just been told someone they hadn't known for many years was dead. It was cruel and it was horrible, but it was true.

He tried not to laugh at the impersonal name his brother had chosen – or been given, it didn't make much difference – it was nearly as bad as his own code name, and that alone was hilarious to the darker, more cynical part of his mind.

Still, he took the data stick from the child, full of information on the infamous organisation which had vanished four years earlier, then calmly and sensibly said that he could turn them all over to the authorities with what he had just been handed on blind faith.

The child was foolish for giving such a thing to a complete stranger. Regardless of what his brother may have said or done, Lyle was still an unknown, a stranger, and the child's actions were careless bordering on stupid. Shirin would have bitched him out worse that she had Klaus and him that time they had got a little too drunk and a little too enthusiastic and vocal in their plans to overthrow the current government. Had they been anywhere but their own base they would have been found dead in an alley or a ditch somewhere by morning, a fate which Shirin was more than willing to demonstrate on them should they ever try it again.

But the child hadn't listened to Lyle's words of sensibility, instead throwing in the information about the lock down on Kathron's operations. That, teamed with the fact the child already knew of his allegiance and work as a Kathron operative, and the comment about changing the world had left Lyle standing alone in the middle of the street just watching the child walk away. He hadn't been given any real chance to reply, he had just been left there with the data on Celestial Being, verbal confirmation of his brother's past whereabouts and consequent demise, and a location and time for where and when he could find the child tomorrow with his decision.

Lyle still thought the child was foolish, but he looked a little taller as he walked away, trying to fill boots two sizes too big for him and that was something Lyle could almost sympathise with.

However he had more important matters on his hands right now, in his hands even, as he clenched the data stick tighter, feeling the cold, smooth surface and sharp edges through the leather of his gloves. He had work to do, there was no use thinking about it now, the past could never be changed, that was why he kept walking forward, wasn't it?

"Just shut up, you fool," Lyle muttered to himself, digging the car keys from his pocket and unlocking the Lancia behind him, throwing himself into the driver's seat, taking a moment or two just to stare out of the windscreen, debating how best to tackle the situation. Should he check the data himself first, or phone Klaus first? Part of his mind screamed the second option, wanting to hear a familiar voice to calm the nerves he didn't know were frayed, but Gene One knew the first option was the right one as he reached over for the bag of things he had thrown together and kept under the passenger seat. He had never bothered taking his brother's things from the boot, they were useful, but it meant he'd had to keep his own things elsewhere, amused he'd finally found a use for his old, moth-eaten school bag.

Sitting with his legs propped up on the dashboard Lyle hunted through the bag until he found the cheep portable computer he'd thrown in there, it was pretty useless and old, but it worked well enough for him as he booted it up, hoping he'd remembered to charge it after the last time he'd used it and flicked the data stick nervously between his fingers. The password was typed with one hand and a smirk, and then he got to work.

The data was neatly organised, files and folders named, dated and sorted, and Lyle was impressed as he skimmed through the logs and reports and statistics no one else had ever seen. No one outside of Celestial Being that was, those inside must have known it all already, read it, this was all information his brother knew or had access to and it was mind blowing to see it all laid out before him like this.

He grabbed his phone from his pocket and flipped it open still looking through the information as he started to dial Klaus' number, then he stopped, tapping his fingers on the edge of the computer and changed his mind. He wanted to check what the child had told him as he listened to the dial tone, not smiling anymore as he thought of the damages that may have already been inflicted.

It was worse than he had anticipated as he closed his eyes and hung up, giving a moment's silence before re-dialling Klaus and using his code name, requesting a secure line.

"Gene One." Klaus sounded serious, but then so did he. "What's wrong."

It wasn't even a question as Lyle, no Gene One, began reeling off in a clipped tone the information he had spread out before him on the screen of his computer and the information he had been told by the child in the street. He left out his brother, and Klaus did not interrupt or ask anything about Lyle's life or how Lyle was feeling, he was speaking to Gene One, not Lyle Dylandy, and they both knew the difference.

"So, what do you think?" Lyle finished, sighing and leaning back in his seat, shutting the computer and tossing it carelessly aside, suddenly feeling very small and tired now the official work was done, now he had nothing left to hide behind.

There was silence for a long time, but Lyle waited, eyes closed as he drew his knees up to his chest and rested his free arm across them. He was glad no one was there to see him now; he felt like a child again, begging for advice. As Gene One he knew he should accept, but Lyle Dylandy wasn't so sure.

"Lyle?" Klaus's voice was quieter, addressing him as Lyle, not Gene One anymore, not formal anymore, and he was pretty sure his friend had gone into another room, away from people who might overhear.

"Yes?"

"I think you should go for it, but not just for us."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"For your own piece of mind, Lyle, go and find out what's going on and what really happened."

Lyle didn't answer, didn't know how to answer. He didn't think he'd told anyone enough that they could join up the fragments of his life, but then Klaus was smart and a good friend and maybe Lyle had forgotten just how good he really was.

"Are you still there, Lyle?"

He shook his head, "Yes, I'm here."

Klaus laughed, maybe a little uncertainly, "Good, I thought you'd got lost again."

"No, not this time I'm afraid."

The humour sounded more forced than usual, a little more cracked, as he reached on instinct for the lighter and cigarettes in his pocket.

"Put them down, Lyle."

Lyle froze with his hand around the lighter.

"Don't run away from this, leave the nicotine alone and just listen to me."

Lyle's hand dropped away, falling to the seat, as he replied quietly, almost resignedly. "Go on then."

"Join Celestial Being, as Lockon Stratos and as Gene One, that's a given, but be there as Lyle Dylandy, don't run away, go there and find some damn peace for yourself, you need it, and," Lyle could almost see Klaus smiling on the other end of the line, looking up at the rock and steel ceiling of their desert base, "you know where to find us, and you know you can call me, so don't be a stranger, Lyle. Go change this stupid world and make it better and keep us informed while you're at it."

Lyle gave a small, wry smile, "Thanks for that encouragement, my friend; you have an amazing way with words."

"Better than yours," Klaus retorted.

"And which of us, may I remind you, has the university degree?"

"And who runs this show?"

"Shirin," Lyle replied, not missing a beat and then laughed and so did Klaus, and their talk turned with ease to more trivial matters.

So it was at ten o'clock the next morning Lyle was stood outside the station, one of his brother's old bags slung over his shoulder, a grin plastered across his face and determination in his head and heart. He greeted the child with a cheerful wave and pretended he couldn't see the raw pain in the eyes of the woman he'd brought with him – Sumeragi he surmised, different from what he had read, more drawn and thin, the years hadn't been kind to her. But he was Lyle Dylandy therefore he was always laidback. He made note of everything the child did as they passed through the station; he was Gene One and he was here on business, not pleasure.

He stared up at the sky, the stars, and the future: he was now Lockon Stratos, and he was going to change the world.


	10. Snow Reprise

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Snow ~Reprise~**

The snow crunched under his boots, hands stuffed deep in his pockets and collar turned up against the chilling wind. He had no real destination in mind as he walked across the park, children playing, laughing, enjoying the winter weather while parents watched on from a distance, careful to keep an eye on them and make sure no one was hurt. He smiled at the sight, but didn't stop to watch the fun. No one paid any attention to him; he was just another stranger passing through.

Back in the car – his car now – his phone was ringing. Annoyed messages he'd probably delete before listening to piling up. It wasn't that he didn't care, just that he already knew what they'd say: where are you, what are you doing, the sort of messages he was used to receiving and never answering anyway.

Maybe his brother had always answered the phone. Maybe he had always been on time and done everything by the book. Lyle doubted it. They may have been different, but some things never changed, and Lyle had known his brother to be a skilled liar and convincing actor.

Only now things had to change.

Now the stranger walking through the park had to be someone new, someone old. Someone he wasn't. It may have been the same face they saw whenever they looked at him, but beyond that was a different mind, and that was something they couldn't, or maybe just didn't want, to see. So, like the snow covering the ground he became someone else, he had to paint himself a new identity just like as children he and Neil had painted a whole new world in their own garden. He had taken a name that was not his own, a legacy that he had not created, and had to try and live up to it all without losing himself along the way. And, the way they would react when he said, or did, something his brother would not have... That was not something he enjoyed, the slap in the face that reminded them all: Lyle was not Neil. It was a reminder that the snow was not as crisp or as clean after a few hours in the sun, becoming dirty and melting, mixing up the truth and lies until no one knew what to believe.

He didn't bother finding the gate when he reached the other side of the park. Opting instead for climbing over the low fence he turned and headed down the street. The noise of the traffic sounded slightly off after the relative quiet and childish laughter of the park, but it didn't faze him. He was used to these streets as he continued to walk to wherever, somewhere, or maybe nowhere. It made no difference really.

And he knew it was strange to feel so calm and indifferent to the world as he walked these streets when he could lose his head to rage in the middle of battle. Recklessness was a trait they both shared; Lyle just wasn't sure who was best at holding back, not anymore.

He knew it was strange, but it made so much sense as he turned the corner down what should have been a familiar road, listening to the echo of voices in the stores, loud and jovial. It had always been that way as he saw children exit the shop which wasn't there anymore, sweets in hand, running for home. _You had best to be back before dinner_, she'd say, and their laughter was all that could be heard all the way down the street.

Between them they'd had everything under control. What one could not understand the other could, and what one was bad at the other could perfect. He had been the one to pick the fights and his brother the one to break them up, but his brother had been the one to hold a grudge and he the one to calm him down, to let it go. Lyle would be the one to throw the first snowball but Neil would have the last laugh, or maybe that was Amy. He'd resented his brother's talents, frustrated by the fact no one but their family could tell them apart when they were such different people, but Neil was still his brother, his twin, and that couldn't and wouldn't ever change.

Yet where had that got them? He had heard the stories and, looking up at what once was a house that had been empty for years, he jumped the fence and walked across what once had been the garden, now just concrete beneath the snow and the humming of electricity filling the air, no green grass or trees or home left to speak of.

He still walked though, and he thought he could see footprints in the snow beside his own, and he thought he could hear children laughing, shrieking with glee as they chased round and round and round until night fell. It was their own world to paint however they wished, and they had wished and it had worked and life had been good.

Lyle stood in the middle of what once was their garden and stared up at the sky, not seeing the man-made metal and mechanics that had replaced it all, through the falling snow, blinking it out of his eyes – it was only the snow, really, that was all – and he had to wonder if they hadn't both been living under the snowfall – ash-fall – of the watchful gaze of the world.

His brother hadn't been a saint, and he wasn't the devil in disguise.

They could both only be human.

"Race you," the wind whispered.

Then the world had fallen and they had both found that ash was nothing like snow.

"You're on," Lyle replied.


End file.
